Interesting prompt: let me guess... while you were fishing Miles out of a mud pit he fell into while wandering off to find his brother (calling out, "Sweetie, sweetie, where are you sweetie?" while he walked, one of the people who helped you out on the farm as an intern a couple of years back appeared through the trees?
For me, I'm returning to the guy who got a fresh identity from Trinket (not sure where his most recent episode is, but that should be a reminder).
In two posts, sorry :(
You again? Montrose has about 20,000 folk living in it, which is perhaps a few more than I'm entirely comfortable around, but I solved that problem easily enough by heading out westward on Lasalle Road. I spent an evening at the Montrose Manor, and then later the next day, on the appropriately named Lone Eagle Road, a horseshoe bend of a track around plainsland that was starting to scorch in the summer heat I found a nicely landscaped place over three levels. I pulled up by the garages (I counted, there were three) and strolled around the back to see who was home. The building sprawled lazily on the plain, set up higher than the road that curved around it with some nice views: fields off to the east and a tidy little estate further south, houses all set in a fair acre of land each. IT was quiet, a little sleepy, and looked like there weren't a lot of visitors. "Hallo the house!" I called out, deepening my voice a little. People are more reassured by confident, deep tones, and while I'll never be a Samuel L. Jackson I can manage a decent Denzel Washington. There was a return of silence, which I appreciated. French windows formed a ground-floor barrier, through which I could see solid wooden furniture laid with overstuffed cushions. There was a breakfast bar that could seat six, with a lone orange settled on it. The ceilings were high, and the multi-level structure of the house started to become apparent; this room looked like it reached the full height of the house, and there were, though it was hard to make out, railings up towards the ceiling suggesting a balcony running around. I carried on round, hallooing every so often and getting no response back. The walls were brick at the bottom with wood built on top of that, which surprised me a little and made me think that there was likely a cellar below, or that perhaps the garages were underground. No trees around the property, no fence, but the relative isolation and the excellent views compensated a little. I could work with it.
I came back to the French windows; it was the work of moments to force the lock. I would need to fix that -- people are too damn trusting in my experience. The door whooshed aside and a blast of air-conditioning struck me. I hadn't realised how hot it was outside until then: I shivered momentarily and then slipped inside, enjoying the cool. Footsteps on the stairs, but where were the stairs? I had two doors to choose from, and I picked left. Closet. Winter coats, boots, a cedarwood chest that smelled like my childhood, a pair of skis. I closed the door, I could investigate later. The other door was in front of me. A middle-aged face, large, puffy, soft. White shirt, but there were stains on the cuffs; trousers but no socks or shoes. A smell of Old Spice and peppermints. "You again?" I punched him in the solar plexus, increasing the force because I could see he was fat and it would only protect him. The air rushed from his lungs and the peppermint smell turned out to be covering up garlic and something spicy. His face turned the colour of milk going off and he folded up, his hands folding across his gut, his knees buckling but not quite spilling him to the floor. I smacked his temple with the heel of my hand before he could start vomiting and his eyes rolled up into his head with a soft groan. Goodnight, sweet prince. As I hauled his unconscious body up the stairs I kept wondering what he meant. Me again?
3 comments:
Interesting prompt: let me guess... while you were fishing Miles out of a mud pit he fell into while wandering off to find his brother (calling out, "Sweetie, sweetie, where are you sweetie?" while he walked, one of the people who helped you out on the farm as an intern a couple of years back appeared through the trees?
For me, I'm returning to the guy who got a fresh identity from Trinket (not sure where his most recent episode is, but that should be a reminder).
In two posts, sorry :(
You again?
Montrose has about 20,000 folk living in it, which is perhaps a few more than I'm entirely comfortable around, but I solved that problem easily enough by heading out westward on Lasalle Road. I spent an evening at the Montrose Manor, and then later the next day, on the appropriately named Lone Eagle Road, a horseshoe bend of a track around plainsland that was starting to scorch in the summer heat I found a nicely landscaped place over three levels. I pulled up by the garages (I counted, there were three) and strolled around the back to see who was home.
The building sprawled lazily on the plain, set up higher than the road that curved around it with some nice views: fields off to the east and a tidy little estate further south, houses all set in a fair acre of land each. IT was quiet, a little sleepy, and looked like there weren't a lot of visitors.
"Hallo the house!" I called out, deepening my voice a little. People are more reassured by confident, deep tones, and while I'll never be a Samuel L. Jackson I can manage a decent Denzel Washington. There was a return of silence, which I appreciated.
French windows formed a ground-floor barrier, through which I could see solid wooden furniture laid with overstuffed cushions. There was a breakfast bar that could seat six, with a lone orange settled on it. The ceilings were high, and the multi-level structure of the house started to become apparent; this room looked like it reached the full height of the house, and there were, though it was hard to make out, railings up towards the ceiling suggesting a balcony running around.
I carried on round, hallooing every so often and getting no response back. The walls were brick at the bottom with wood built on top of that, which surprised me a little and made me think that there was likely a cellar below, or that perhaps the garages were underground. No trees around the property, no fence, but the relative isolation and the excellent views compensated a little. I could work with it.
I came back to the French windows; it was the work of moments to force the lock. I would need to fix that -- people are too damn trusting in my experience. The door whooshed aside and a blast of air-conditioning struck me. I hadn't realised how hot it was outside until then: I shivered momentarily and then slipped inside, enjoying the cool.
Footsteps on the stairs, but where were the stairs? I had two doors to choose from, and I picked left.
Closet. Winter coats, boots, a cedarwood chest that smelled like my childhood, a pair of skis. I closed the door, I could investigate later. The other door was in front of me.
A middle-aged face, large, puffy, soft. White shirt, but there were stains on the cuffs; trousers but no socks or shoes. A smell of Old Spice and peppermints.
"You again?"
I punched him in the solar plexus, increasing the force because I could see he was fat and it would only protect him. The air rushed from his lungs and the peppermint smell turned out to be covering up garlic and something spicy. His face turned the colour of milk going off and he folded up, his hands folding across his gut, his knees buckling but not quite spilling him to the floor. I smacked his temple with the heel of my hand before he could start vomiting and his eyes rolled up into his head with a soft groan. Goodnight, sweet prince.
As I hauled his unconscious body up the stairs I kept wondering what he meant.
Me again?
Greg - always appreciate hearing more from your trinket fellow!
Ooh, this is intriguing. What did he mean by that indeed!
Loved the description of the property and house by the way.
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